Permafreeze
by Shotgunnova
Summary: A Macalania nun's record of lategame events, as she sits on the temple steps. Firstperson POV.


**Just somethin' I wrote while reading FFX NPC dialogue. It just occured to me how much suffering the faithful Yevonites would have to endure, especially those with a position of medium -- those who conveyed the teachings to the rest. I'm not really fond of first-person POV, so don't mind any lapses into third-person or that junk (I don't think there are any). Kinda nice to write something that isn't FFT-centric.**

**That is all. **

--------------

I occupied the steps to the temple, feeling expectedly cold as my robed bottom soaked up the frigid temperature of the ice-slicked steps. I was sunny out, but I only knew from the way the ice's dirty blue tinge was marginally brighter -- any warm sunbeams had been stiff-armed by the walls of ice this place, one of Yevon's sanctuaries. I am Brimelia Arbeicht, a clergywoman.

Events recently had brought a calm to this place, an unsettling one not to be confused with 'The Calm,' mind you. The maester of the temple had been murdered and had not been sent... The brass in Bevelle had reportedly suffered riots during an Al Bhed attack...or so they say. The faith had been debased, and we were all suffering. I spend my days in disquieted solitude, watching for travellers who would make their way out here and still carry on prayers and rites.

I fear that the lonely air of things to come is making this place colder, and all of us servants of Yevon are going to freeze along with it. Our trust in the 1000-year-old ideas has been subverted through odd maneuverings as of late. The Al Bhed refugees that had arrived here lately had informed us that Guado clansmen had launched an attack on their desert home. Guadosalam is not that far away, and I knew many members of the youth...Now, Seymour's insincerity has cost them everything. It still feels odd to speak of the maester without title or respect...but I think that's part of the change we faithful will have to make soon. How long until our hearts grow void of the teachings?

We have no high priest yet, and with the disarray in St. Bevelle, I don't think we'll be getting one within the coming days. We have no support, and with many maesters -- not just Seymour -- disappearing or deceased, the pillars we've all been standing on have tipped. Perhaps this is our own trial... It's sad to see we, who have been looked to for guidance and advice, questioning our own stability. Many people have fallen to the insensitivity that Yevon has shown recently -- I cannot deny that. But, just the same, if we fall, there will not be any way to get back up. We are all shouldering the responsibility to keep face, and it is hard going. This is a personal, individual test of health and dedication. Some monks have already left for other temples or have quit completely -- I doubt they will find solace in their choices; for, no matter where one goes, the result will be same. I can only wonder how the wake of the inevitable downfall will play out. I can only pray that it's light and quick, if this is how we are to go.

I would go out and spread the teachings like my younger days, but I cannot bear to leave the temple vacant more than it is already. Lord Ohalland and Lady Yocun would be displeased if they saw their statues gather dust and fall apart in the eyes of the people. The respect for summoners still remains -- they are our saviors -- but they may be carrying the greatest weight of us all for that reason.

It feels like we've buried the precepts already, like cold stone tablets turning back to thee earth. It shouldn't feel this hollow to be practicing a faith without the morals to go along with it. Seymour...he killed his own father. He was lionized as someone to save us all, and now he's taken a piece of our trust with him. Sitting out in the cold for so long will make you warm with numbness -- that's how this exposure to the injustices under Yevon's roof has numbed me. My hands are shaking in the gloves, the crystalline landscape devoid of loving worship and respect only reflects back my own weaknesses at me. I shouldn't be faltering like this, though I know there's nothing I can do. No one can take back words that have damned us all, or put the flesh and toil I've put into my faith back.

It's...it's sad that the Hymn of the Fayth is only reminiscent of the duty we've lost. Though it continues to sing its wellspring of empowerment, us nuns...monks are crippled by it. Fayth, the imprisoned souls of the dead, are more spirited than the living here, and the echoing voice is more chilling than a snowy wind hitting you flush to the face. A reminder that we're forsaking our calling somehow. My tears would do no good here; they won't do anyone good, anywhere.

At this point, the temple could fall into the lake bottom and not be paid any mind. It might as well happen if it's happened proverbially. I guess...we're not so different from the people; we were all betrayed. It just feels worse when for the teachers than the students, when the distrust trickles down to all echelons of society. Our discontent will be a religious permafreeze, and we will all have to suffer a relentless winter coming very soon.

I will pray for all of you.


End file.
